From Where You Are
by Marmg
Summary: Bellamy's and Clarke's paths overlap again and again on their journeys through the history of the world.
1. Ice Age

He's visiting France sometime during the middle of the Ice Age the first time he meets her.

Bellamy is dressed the part: his hair is shoulder length after months of dodging his barber, his beard conquers half of his face, and he's laden with heavy fur pelts which he fashioned himself in his native time of 2196. Bellamy traveled smart; he came prepared.

The girl he notices perched in the branches of a leafless tree, however, didn't bother. She's wearing a powder blue ski coat, jeans, a knit cap with a pompom at the top, and a classic Jansport backpack with clunky headphones poking out the pocket. Not exactly Ice Age attire.

Bellamy hangs back from the stocky group of Cro Magnon he's been trekking the country with, pretending to fish for something in the depths of his buffalo skin satchel. He waits until they're a safe distance away to approach the girl and her tree. Her hands are flying swiftly across a sketchpad when Bellamy arrives at the base of the trunk. She doesn't even look up from her work when he coughs to grab her attention.

"Hey!" he yells up at her. The girl's gaze snaps from her drawing, and her blue eyes are filled with fear when they settle on him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Bellamy whisper-shouts.

The girl blinks, jaw slack, oblivious to the wisps of blonde hair whipping against her face. "Wha-?"

Bellamy glances over his left shoulder, then his right, careful to make sure no one from this time period is around to hear them. "Do you speak English?" he asks her.

The girl's eyebrows disappear beneath her hat. " _You_ speak English?" she balks.

Bellamy fixes her with a bored look. "Yeah," he deadpans. "I picked it up from the French cavemen I've been bunking with."

The girl frowns at him but doesn't argue. Instead she asks "are you a chrononaut?"

Bellamy hesitates, unsure of how to answer her. Chrononauts – government certified time travelers – haven't been around since before the third World War. He doesn't want to spoil her future if it's already his past.

He ignores her question and replies with one of his own. "When are you from?"

"2020," she tells him. "You?"

"2196."

"A 176 year age gap," she muses, and Bellamy can't help cracking a smile.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he presses on. "You aren't even dressed appropriately."

She rolls her eyes, slumps against the trunk of the tree. "Sketching," she says, "and I didn't think prehistoric animal furs would protect me from an arctic chill as well as my insulated winter coat."

Comfort before security. Typical.

"First of all, it may be freezing, but we're nowhere near the Arctic," Bellamy argues. "Secondly, you're putting your life in danger by not going incognito about 1.2 million years in your past."

The girl snorts. "No one can see me up here."

"I saw you."

"Because you were looking."

"You're wearing 21st century attire in a barren tree during the _Ice Age_ ," Bellamy reminds her. "You aren't hard to miss."

She doesn't fight him, but she scoots down the branch she's sitting on until she is directly above him. Bellamy tilts his head back as far as it will go to look at her.

"Are you a chrononaut?" she asks again.

He wrinkles his nose at her. "Are _you_ a chronoaut?"

She wrinkles her nose back. Her hand drops from her side and dangles over him. He reaches up and wraps it in his own.

"Clarke Griffin," she introduces herself. Her name rings a bell – a warning alarm, more like – but for the life of him he can't figure out why.

He gives her dainty hand a firm shake. "Bellamy Blake."

And this is how seventeen decades and two wandering souls are bridged together before Homo Erectus stands tall.


	2. Roman Empire

They meet for the second time during the height of the Roman Empire.

She's the regal blonde in the vibrant _stola_ , overdressed and out of place in the nosebleeds of the Flavian Amphitheater. He's the one two rows ahead of her, blending into the crowd, not paying attention to the gladiatorial combat playing out before them. Clarke would not have paid him a second glance if not for the paper – _modern day_ _printer_ paper – he has his head bent over.  
Her heart knows it's Bellamy immediately. Her brain, however, sides with reason, battles chance, and stops her feet from sprinting to him. Until, that is, he turns his head to speak to the person next to him and she catches a glimpse of the side of his face. By now, Clarke would recognize his profile anywhere; it's the same one she's been drawing since he left her during the Ice Age two months ago.

Hastily excusing herself from Jasper and Monty, Clarke pushes herself through the violent audience, enduring jabbing elbows and flecks of spit as she goes.

Once she is directly behind Bellamy, she stands on her tiptoes, whispers in his ear, watches with glee as his whole body shivers. "What's that you got there?"

He swivels around so fast, Clarke is sent stumbling into the people behind her. Bellamy grabs her elbow and pulls her to him before the angry mob can push her forward.

When he realizes who it is he's holding, he releases his grip, quickly stuffing the paper into his satchel. "Clarke?"

"Bellamy," she greets, then points at the bag he is swinging behind him. "That didn't look like _papyrus_."

The man Bellamy was talking to before she arrived quirks an eyebrow at them. He shifts uncomfortably when Clarke lifts a hand in acknowledgment. Bellamy leans toward him, and Clarke can barely hear him say "Miller, it's fine. She's just another traveler," before returning his attention to her.

"It's not papyrus," he admits. Then, "are you following me?"

Clarke is taken aback by his brashness. She huffs indignantly, folds her arms across her chest. "I could ask you the same question."

"Relax, _Princess_ , I'm not," he snaps. "It's just the odds of us running into each other again are-"

"Low," she finishes for him.

"Incredibly."

An awkward silence hangs between them, broken only by the howls of bloodthirsty spectators. She uses the moment to fully appreciate his post first century aesthetic. Unlike Clarke with her porcelain skin and sun-bleached hair, Bellamy fits into the sea of Romans almost perfectly. His tan is golden, eyes hooded and dark, curls black and unruly and plastered to his forehead. His dirt-speckled toga even meshes in better than her bright aristocratic garb. His grizzly beard from the Ice Age is gone, and his attire gives Clarke a better impression of the curves of his body. She's grateful he's no longer buried beneath animal skins and hair, and she's surprised she ever managed to recognize him without them.

He's thoroughly eying her up and down too, and Clarke wonders what he thinks of how she looks out of her winter apparel; hair down and frizzed, face glistening with sweat, overdressed for the worst seats in the house. All at once, she's keen to divert his attention to something other than her appearance.

"So, what are you doing here?" she asks.

Bellamy looks amused she's questioning him at all. He glances over his shoulder to the battling gladiators, then looks back to Clarke with a smile. "Watching people kill each other."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "I'm serious," she huffs.

"So am I."

"Right." Clarke shifts her gaze to his satchel again. "What was on the paper?" she asks.

Bellamy is on guard once more, clutching his bag's strap tightly to his chest. "What is this, 20 Questions?" he spits, then nods his head to a spot behind her.

Clarke turns around to see Jasper and Monty jumping up and down, flailing their arms wildly to grab her attention. When she turns back to Bellamy, she notices Miller tapping his foot impatiently as well.

"Your flying monkeys want their witch back," Bellamy tells her.

Clarke scoffs. "Your goon is tap dancing at a bloodbath."

Miller stops moving his foot immediately.

"Look," Clarke says, "I find it just as strange as you do that we crossed paths more than once. That's the only reason I'm putting you through the Spanish Inquisition."

A muscle ticks near Bellamy's jaw, his nostrils flaring just the slightest. "You didn't answer _my_ questions last time we met." His voice is low, irritated, and Clarke gulps when he steps threateningly into her space. "Why should I answer your questions now? Bumping into you twice means I'm supposed to trust you? Coincidence is going to decide who I answer to?"

Bellamy doesn't back down. Clarke doesn't shy away. "Coincidence?"

Bellamy clicks his tongue. "Yes. Twice is a coincidence, three times is a-"

"Pattern," she concludes. Bellamy nods stiffly. "So let's make a deal."

"A deal?" he groans.

"A deal. If we run into each other for a third time, I will answer all of your questions," says Clarke, "as long as you answer all of mine, too."

Bellamy regards her skeptically, arms crossed, ignoring an indignant Miller to his left.

Clarke considers herself a realistic person. The odds of her and Bellamy ever meeting again are slim to none. She knows this. But she can't chalk their encounters up to chance, and she's itching to know his secrets. Since Bellamy seems to be taking her offer into consideration, Clarke thinks it's safe to assume he's itching to know hers too.

"I don't let destiny dictate what I do," he reasons, "but fine. If it gets you out my way, then deal. I doubt we'll be so unlucky as to see each other again, anyway."

Bellamy holds out his hand for Clarke to shake. She takes hold of it and tugs, pulling him down to her height. She's in his ear again, whispering coordinates, a date, a time. When she slips her hand from his limp hold, Clarke smiles at him innocently, like she hadn't just slithered through a loophole in their agreement.

"Meet me then, there," she tells him. "You know, in case you want to dictate destiny."

Clarke spins on her feet, fighting her way back to Jasper and Monty, leaving a dumbfounded Bellamy in her wake.

She hopes, in time, he'll come to her.


	3. Victorian London

**AN:** _Just a heads up: I am so far from pleased with this chapter. I wrote it over a month ago, put it to the side because I couldn't even try to comprehend it anymore, basically gave up on the entire fic, and then yesterday, dared to take a peek at what I'd written in September. I'm only posting this because it wasn't as embarrassingly bad as I remembered it to be, but I still don't think it's any good at all. Lord knows if it even makes sense. Situations like this must be what betas are for, right? Anyway, God knows why I still can't spit something decent out 2 months later but...enjoy? Maybe? Bah._

* * *

Bellamy fingers the sheet of paper in his coat pocket.

It's soft to the touch, the edges worn, creased and crumpled and delicate from the countless times he's folded it and unfolded it and folded it again; it's wrinkled from when he crushed it in his fist and threw it at his bedroom wall; the times and coordinates printed across it are faded where he's run his fingers over them, smudged and illegible where he spilled coffee on it one morning.

Printed on it is the travel log of one of the most famous chrononauts of all time: Indra Gona.

This log is his sister's most treasured possession.

This log is the only hope he has of finding her.

Right now though, Bellamy is not thinking about Octavia, his sister lost in time, as he rubs the log between his thumb and forefinger.

Right now, Bellamy is reminding himself about the decision he made __not__ to follow the directions Clarke Griffin slipped to him centuries ago in Ancient Rome. He's also wondering how she managed to track him down in Victorian London anyway.

"You came," Clarke says in way of greeting. They're holding up traffic on a cracked, busy sidewalk. Clarke is dressed extravagantly again, wearing an expensive walking suit where most of the city people around her are stricken by poverty. "I knew you would."

Clarke is flanked by a girl with a stern face and equally inappropriate clothing as well as a boy with hair far too long for the 1890's aristocrat he's dressed up as. He regards Bellamy with a sour expression, as if __he__ is the one being followed through history by an enigmatic blonde.

"I __didn't__ come," Bellamy tells her.

Miller, glued to Bellamy's left, shifts closer to him, while Murphy, at Bellamy's right, tries to suppress his laughter.

"Dude," Murphy says, leaning close to Bellamy's ear. "This is the most dedicated stalker you've ever had. And you dealt with __Roma__."

Bellamy jabs him in the ribs. The exchange does not go unnoticed by Clarke, who quirks an eyebrow but maintains a cordial demeanor. "If you didn't come, then why are you here?" she asks.

Why is he there? Bellamy has no clue how to answer her, though the answer is simple:

Bellamy is there because his sister might be. Because Octavia wanted to follow in Indra Gona's footsteps – literally. Because he __lost__ her when he let her. Because traveling to the times and places on Indra's log is the best bet Bellamy has of ever seeing her again. Because the next destination on the log is 1891, London, so __that's__ where he is if it means Octavia might be here too.

The real mystery, obviously, is why __Clarke__ is here. Where Bellamy is. For the __third__ time.

"I should be asking you the same thing."

Clarke's friend with the hair rolls his eyes. She doesn't notice. "Jumping to the interrogation already?" she asks. "That's fine. I'm not a fan of small talk either."

Bellamy feels Miller reach for the pocketknife inside of his jacket.

"I didn't follow the coordinates you gave me, Clarke, or the date," Bellamy slowly explains. "I didn't want to play your game in Rome, and I sure as hell am not playing it now. I don't know how you figured out I came here but-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down please." It's not Clarke speaking but the girl beside her, hands raised, eyes blazing. "You think we're following you?" She pauses for an answer which doesn't come. "This is where Clarke told you to meet her," the girl continues. "This is __when__ Clarke told you to meet her."

Murphy guffaws. Miller's hand visibly clenches inside his jacket.

"Yeah, __that__ makes sense," Bellamy snaps. "The odds of us meeting again – _ _by chance –__ are astronomical, alright? So cut the crap. You're following us, and I want to know why."

Clarke's face is blank. She blinks. Then, "Can I speak to you privately?"

"Clarke-" The boy she's with steps forward, blocking her from Bellamy's view.

Clarke pushes him out of her way. "Just stick by Raven, Finn," she instructs him. "Talk to – it's Miller, right?"

Miller grunts his response.

And, though Clarke didn't ask, Murphy introduces himself too, bowing wobbly in the process.

Clarke jerks her head towards him. "Talk to Miller and Murphy."

The girl, Raven, grumbles under her breath. Finn is on the verge of protesting when Clarke returns her attention to Bellamy.

"Bellamy," she says. Her eyes are big and blue and pleading. "Just walk with me for a while."

Bellamy looks to Miller who shakes his head gravely. He looks to Murphy, who is raking sleazy eyes over Clarke. Something twists in Bellamy's gut, and his decision is made. "Fine."

* * *

Bellamy and Clarke deposit their friends at a dingy pub, where Raven receives strange looks when she orders pints of something toxic for everyone.

They weave their way through the hustle and bustle of London, padding down cobblestone streets and dodging the occasional horse and carriage. They don't speak until the crowds have thinned, the homeless have diminished, and Clarke stops to admire an ostentatious gown in a shop window.

"So?" Bellamy prompts. His anxiety has risen with every step they took away from their friends as well as his irritation. He hates to admit his curiosity has multiplied tenfold too. Clarke was right in Rome – he __is__ itching to know her secrets, especially now.

"So," Clarke parrots, eyes still set on the dress. "There's clearly been a misunderstanding."

"Or you're just tricking me," Bellamy counters. " _ _Again__."

Clarke clucks her tongue. "I didn't trick you in Rome," she argues. "I gave you a choice."

"And I __chose__ not to see you again."

"Yet, here we are." She turns her body to face him, back pressed against the shop window. "Twice is a coincidence-"

"Three times is a pattern. Yeah. How did you find me?"

Clarke crosses her arms tightly over her chest. "Seriously?" She huffs. "Bellamy, I swear this is where I told you to meet me. Do you not remember the date, the coordinates I gave to you at The Colosseum?"

"No," he answers honestly. "I forgot. __Purposefully__."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," says Clarke. "Maybe you remembered subconsciously? Listen, if you really didn't want to meet up with me we can just forget this whole-"

"I didn't remember __subconsciously__ ," spits Bellamy. "I – ugh." He halts. He chooses his next words carefully. "I planned on coming to this place, to this time before I ever even met you."

Clarke looks genuinely surprised. "Oh?"

Bellamy digs his hands into his pockets. He shrugs.

"Well, I did too," Clarke tells him.

The roll of his eyes is testament to how much he believes her.

"I __did__ ," she insists. "That's why I told you to come here. Because I was __already__ coming here."

"So this specific time and place is just convenient for you?" Bellamy gripes.

"Oh __please__. Like it isn't convenient for you too."

"Youdidn't know it would be."

"Bellamy," Clarke chastises.

He mimics her stance, folding his arms in front of him. "Whatever," he says. "Why should I trust you?"

Clarke quirks a brow. "Why should __I__ trust __you__?" she asks.

"I haven't given you a reason not to," says Bellamy.

"And you haven't given me a reason __to__ trust you either."

In the minute they stare each other down, Bellamy feels the walls he's built to keep Clarke at a distance crumble, just the slightest. He doesn't want to, but he believes her. And a part of him __does__ want to trust her, too. But first he has to know –

"Are you a chrononaut?"

Bellamy is reminded of the first time they asked this of each other, with haughtiness, evasiveness, and surety they would never cross paths again.

Now Clarke looks cornered, uncomfortable. She purses her lips and ducks her head. Bellamy hears the toe of her boot tap against the pavement beneath her circle skirt. It feels like ages before she manages, "Chrononaut __Trainee__."

Bellamy isn't sure if that's a good thing for him. If Clarke is a trainee, if she isn't officially authorized to travel through time yet…

He sucks in a stream of cold air.

"Are __you__ a chrononaut?" she asks. By the look on her face – resigned, expectant, just a bit too relaxed – Bellamy is sure she already knows the answer.

"No," he admits.

Clarke expels a puff of air, creating a tiny cloud between them. She nods once. "I guess that makes us both renegades in a way, huh?"

Clarke, maybe. Bellamy isn't sure he can be considered a renegade when, in his time, there's no longer a system for him to revolt against. Nevertheless, he agrees and says, "Something like that."

Pushing herself away from the shop window, Clarke jerks her head down the street, signaling for Bellamy to follow her. She seems far more relaxed now that their positions as travelers has been established. Bellamy can't help but share the sentiment.

"So, if you're not a chrononaut, how are you traveling?" Clarke asks him. "Assuming you don't have access to any of the technology."

"Ah. Well." Bellamy tugs at his collar. "Miller's dad was a chrononaut. He salvaged some spare parts from antique time machines and-"

"Salvaged," Clarke interrupts. "Antique?" Her stupefied laugh tinkles around them. "Time traveling is a relatively new concept to me. You're talking about it like it's already out of style."

 _ _Or__ , Bellamy is tempted to say, _ _virtually eviscerated.__

"Sorry." He offers her a smile he hopes doesn't look as uneasy as he feels. "It's like space traveling. Kind of __is__ out of style."

Bellamy doesn't miss her muttered, "Space traveling is __still__ cool…"

" _ _Anyway__ …"

And, before he can consider how foolish it is, Bellamy finds himself telling Clarke everything, the whole story. From his genius friend Wick creating a shanty time machine from spare parts to why they started traveling in the first place. He tells her about Octavia and her obsession with Indra Gona. He explains how they were following one of Indra's travel logs. He tells Clarke about the man, Lincoln, Octavia met in 1960's Alabama and ran away from Bellamy (and the year) to be with. He explains to Clarke that's why he's there, with her, in Victorian London: to find his sister. To bring her home.

Clarke's response is not what he expected.

"Indra Gona," she says, the name falling heavy from her lips. It's not a question.

"Yeah. She's from around your time, actually." Bellamy glances at Clarke from the corner of his eye. "You heard of her?"

"No. Yes. I've heard of her."

"Okay…"

She doesn't elaborate. Bellamy slows their pace, eventually coming to a pause beside a parked horse and buggy. Clarke stops with him, though she doesn't seem to register. She's lost in her thoughts. The corners of her lips pull up in a smile, then down in a frown, as if they're unsure of how to react.

As if she can't decide to be happy or not.

Bellamy can't figure out why. And, instead of trying to, he mulls over the realization that he's told her everything about him while she's only offered a single, concerning bit of information about herself.

"Do you have the log on you?" Clarke blurts out. "Indra Gona's? The one you're following?"

Bellamy grips the paper in his pocket tighter. He lies, because it only seems fair. "No."

Clarke's jaw falls open. Her brows furrow and her eyes narrow. "Yes you do," she responds.

Her eyes flutter to his pocket. Bellamy's fingers twitch.

"No," he says, "I __don't__."

Clarke's nostrils flare. "You do. It's what you were holding at The Colosseum. I __saw__ you with it! Why won't you show it to me?"

"Because I don't have it, Clarke!"

"Please show it to me, Bellamy."

Her eyes are wide again, pleading. They're the same eyes she used to lure him away from their friends and on this walk with her. They're one of many tricks Clarke Griffin seems to have up her sleeve.

Bellamy refuses to fall for them again. "No."

He tries to ignore how hurt she looks, how confused. He focuses on the frustration clearly building behind her pitiful facade.

"Why are __you__ traveling, Clarke? Huh? Why haven't you told me anything about yourself other than you're a self-proclaimed ' _ _renegade__ ' chrononaut?"

She closes her eyes, shakes her head. She makes one last weak effort to get what she wants. "Show me the log and I will."

Bellamy's laugh tastes bitter in his mouth. "Right."

Clarke glowers at him, long and hard. Bellamy meets her unwavering glare with one of his own.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again," says Clarke. Her face shutters then, blank of all emotion. "Unfortunately."

Bellamy feels a muscle jump in his jaw. He doesn't say anything when she turns on her heel and marches back in the direction they came from. He watches her retreating figure until she blends into the sea of Londoners.

Then he rips out the paper.

Octavia and Bellamy have studied Indra Gona's log so intensively for so long that by now, he can recite the exact dates and the exact coordinates without ever having to look at the paper itself. It's second nature. It's a part of him.

What Bellamy cannot tell you off the top of his head are the things printed before the log, the debriefing, the stats. He can't tell you Indra Gona's age when she traveled to all of these times and places. He can't tell you her height or weight or any distinguishing features she had. He can't tell you when she was born, where she's from, __who she traveled through history with.__

Bellamy's eyes snag on a name amidst her general information.

Why hadn't it occurred to him before? he wonders. Why didn't he pay better attention? How could he not fit such simple pieces together?

Indra Gona's companion, the person she embarked on this mission with, was a chrononaut far more famous than herself. He was a chrononaut even more well known than the astronaut Neil Armstrong. He was man who gave his life for his work and became a legacy:

Jake Griffin.

 _ _Griffin__.

All too quickly, Clarke's name is setting off more than warning alarms.


End file.
